Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  Rebecca took a deep, cleansing breath, feeling her chest clear of this weight finally. She stepped back beside her father, who looped his arm through hers.

  “Thank God!” he said. “I can finally stop telling Miriam I’m her mother.” Later that evening, Susan returned to Rebecca’s house. Without being prodded, she phoned Ben in Montreal. Rebecca and Nesha left her in the kitchen for privacy, but she could hear her sister’s side of the conversation from the den.

  “It’s me,” said Susan on the phone. “How are you?”

  Rebecca imagined Ben’s surprise. And, hopefully, his relief.

  “I’m better,” Susan went on. “At Rebecca’s. Yes, Miriam’s doing fine.”

  Rebecca knew Ben had been calling the hospital daily to check on his daughter’s progress.

  “I thought you might come to Toronto this weekend to see her. I miss the boys.”

  She hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t grovelled. Things would be different in that household, Rebecca thought. Ben would have to make some hard choices if she knew her sister.

  Susan stuck her head in the kitchen, her face drawn with exhaustion. “I’m going to sleep. Can you tuck me in?”

  Rebecca gave her a minute to get into the nightgown she had lent her.

  “Thanks for being so understanding,” said Susan as they sat together on the bed in the guest room. Dark blonde roots peeked through her ash blonde hair.

  “I’m your sister. That’s my job.”

  “You knew it wouldn’t work out with Jeff, didn’t you?”

  “I wasn’t sure. You were going through a crisis, and people in crisis do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.”

  “It was so depressing being with him. He thought I could fix his life. He had all these plans. About new furniture. Where we’d go for vacation. How great it would be walking into his favourite restaurant with me on his arm. He only talked about things. I was just a trophy to add to his collection of stuff. Like his car or his job.”

  “I think he really loves you.”

  She sighed guiltily. “In his limited way. I don’t want to sound mean, but he’s an empty man. He tries to fill that emptiness with stuff. I was going to be the solution to his life! When I’m so messed up.”

  Inwardly Rebecca rejoiced at her sister’s assessment, but she arranged her face in a sympathetic expression.

  “He doesn’t even like what he’s doing. Corporate law bores him, but it pays well. At least when I start law school I’ll know what I don’t want to do. I’m going to look into family law.”

  She trained eyes on Rebecca that hinted of the mischief from younger days. “I missed the boys so much. Ben’s taken good care of them, I can tell. I appreciate him more. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell him.”

  She would make a fine lawyer, Rebecca thought.

  Rebecca decided to work on Friday, tending to the more urgent patients who’d had their appointments cancelled the day before.

  She worked steadily for a few hours, then Iris called her to the phone. It was Fitzroy.

  “I won’t keep you, doctor, I know you’re busy. I’m calling you as a courtesy because you were so helpful. You’re going to be contacted by the RCMP about our friend Salim. He’s trying to cut a deal with information he says is, quote, ‘of international significance.’ They’re going to ask you if you know anything.”

  “Is this about the sterilization experiments during the war?”

  “What war? No. We’re talking about current political affairs here. He claims to have information about a plot to assassinate the Egyptian president, Sadat. Willing to give up big names.”

  She paused, taking this in. “That surprises me. His brother-in-law is one of Sadat’s advisors. Wouldn’t Salim have warned them already?”

  “His brother-in-law?”

  “Mohammed Hassan. Hassan Pharmaceuticals.”

  “You know more about this than I do. Just tell the RCMP.”

  “I wonder if his brother-in-law is involved. It seemed strange that Salim knew people in the Muslim Brotherhood.”

  “The whole thing could just be a story to bargain with. He’s looking at a long prison stretch — remember, he killed a cop.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “We don’t want to take any chances. Which is why the RCMP will be calling you.”

  “He never talked about an assassination plot with me. Have you spoken to Will Sentry?”

  “He says it’s news to him, too. I don’t trust this Salim as far as I can throw him.”

  “Well, Sadat’s very unpopular in Egypt right now because of the peace initiative with Israel. I’m sure there are plots against him. The question is, does Salim have an inside track on one?”

  “You’re very well informed,” said Fitzroy.

  She smiled into the phone. “My friend from California has been educating me. The thing about Salim is he’s very well-connected because of his brother-in-law. And he’s a survivor. I can see him betraying his friends if it means things will go easier for him. I wouldn’t discount his story. But how can you check it out?”

  “We won’t be checking anything out. Way out of our territory. The thing’ll get passed on to the FBI, and you know how they share information. We’ll probably never know.”

  “Let’s hope they pass it on to the Egyptians.”

  Mid-afternoon, she opened the door to an examining room for her next patient.

  “Mr. Sentry!”

  He sat there, like any other patient, his arm in a sling. “Call me Wolfie.”

  He must have been very persuasive to get past Iris today.

  “How’s your arm?”

  He watched her pensively. “With Aspirin it’s not so bad.” His hair looked more unruly than usual. She imagined grooming was hard without the use of one’s right hand.

  “I never got a chance to thank you properly,” he said. “You saved my life.”

  She nodded, embarrassed. She never could take compliments graciously.

  “I also wanted to set something straight. I know you misunderstood when I talked about my sister — when I said you were like her. I know you took it the wrong way. Forgive me. Sometimes my temper ...” He lifted his free hand in the air, the equivalent of a shrug. “But I wanted you to understand — I couldn’t give you a bigger compliment. In our family I loved her the most. I wish you could’ve known her when she was your age. She was a noble soul. She sacrificed herself to save so many. Something in your eyes reminds me of her. A sadness. Like you’ve lost something. She looked like that, a terrible sadness in the eyes, from everything she lost.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I like to think that you’re what she could’ve become, if not for the war. If not for many things. She would’ve been just like you.”

  Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. Her chest ached, pain mingling with pleasure in a bittersweet pride. “I don’t know what to say.”

  His lips curled up, his eyes contemplating her with affection. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  Rebecca got home late in the afternoon, just before Ben and the children arrived. The three boys burst through the door, but only two ran to embrace their mother. The eldest held back, sullen. Ben, thinner than Rebecca remembered, stood awkwardly in the hall, watching. When Rebecca introduced Nesha, Ben stepped forward to shake his hand.

  The two youngest boys clung to Susan’s legs. “Where were you?” they asked in a chorus. “We missed you. Are you coming home?”

  Susan looked sheepishly at the eldest from under her eyebrows. “Adam, come here.”

  He stared at the ground, then glanced up at Ben. Ben nodded, gesturing with his head. Susan held out her hand to the boy. Adam crept toward her, anger mingled with confusion on his nine-year-old face. Once he was close enough, Susan pulled him into a tight embrace.

  Nesha observed mother and children quietly. “You’re a very lucky man,” he said to Ben. “Three handsome sons.”

  “Thank you,” Ben murmured.

  “An
d a beautiful daughter,” said Susan. She gazed at Ben with steady eyes, waiting for him to respond.

  He watched her, perplexed but hopeful. “And a beautiful daughter,” he said.

  Susan flushed, rewarding him with a remorseful smile.

  Nesha put his arm around Rebecca’s waist and kissed her forehead. “We should be so lucky,” he murmured in her ear.

  She let his words buoy her up but was careful not to let them carry her away. If the boys behaved well this weekend, if they didn’t have temper tantrums, if their sweet innocence touched him ...

  “Let me introduce you,” she said. “Nesha, this is Adam, the oldest.”

  Adam lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder and blinked.

  “This big boy with the curly hair is Sammy.”

  “Samuel!” he cheeped, his ear still pressed against his mother’s stomach.

  Susan grinned. “His Grade One teacher doesn’t like nicknames.”

  “And Jonathan, a big boy of four.”

  “Auntie Rebecca! I’m still little!”

  Nesha smiled at them. “You boys like hummus?”

  “What’s that?” said Samuel.

  Adam nodded but said nothing.

  “It’s a Middle Eastern dip. They eat it in Israel.” He glanced at Ben’s skullcap. “You tear pita bread into little pieces and scoop up the hummus. It can get messy, but it’s delicious. Want to help me make some? You just throw all the stuff into the food processor and it makes a lot of noise. Then you eat it.”

  The two youngest quickly left their mother’s side. Nesha beckoned to Adam with a wave as he headed for the kitchen.

  Susan and Ben wavered in their spots until Rebecca turned to follow the boys. Then she heard hesitant mumbling behind her, the rustling of clothes as they crept into the den. Things would be awkward at first, but Rebecca trusted in her sister’s charm.

  Lights blazed in the kitchen, while the living room lay dusky, now that the sun was setting. She stopped in the shadows, looking toward the brightly lit doorway, enjoying the cheerful din. How lucky she was! Here, in this house, in this country. She was alive, unlike so many others. The tiny heart-shaped face that visited her dreams. She was like Frieda, and not like Frieda. Her mettle would never be tested in the same arena, and for that she was profoundly grateful.

  But she knew the desolation of a bird trying to land on an iron tree. There were only two possibilities that she could see: hover forever and never land, or look outward to find a more hospitable home. The bird might have to fly in the dark for a while. She would have to trust her instincts and hope she was travelling in the right direction. Maybe take some chances, let go of herself a little, and watch for a welcoming light.

  Rebecca heard the ringing of children’s laughter. The weekend would be easy. It was after everyone left that she would be flying alone again. The food processor whirred on the counter in the distance. A little boy yelped with delight. Savour the moment. Life was made up of moments. She lifted her feet from the ground and headed for the light.

  author’s note

  Anwar Sadat became the first Arab leader to officially visit Israel when he met with Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin. Their initiative resulted in the 1979 Camp David Peace Accord between Egypt and Israel, extremely unpopular in the Arab and Muslim World. The Arab League suspended Egypt’s membership, moving its headquarters from Cairo to Tunis.

  On October 6, 1981, a month after his widespread crackdown on Muslim organizations, Sadat was assassinated during a parade in Cairo. The assassins were army officers who were part of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad, an offshoot of the Muslim Brotherhood that was opposed to his negotiations with Israel. A fatwa approving the assassination had been obtained from Omar Abdel-Rahman, a cleric later convicted in the U.S. for his role in the 1993 World Trade Center bombing.

  As air force jets flew overhead distracting the crowd, a troop truck halted before the presidential reviewing stand, and a lieutenant strode forward. Sadat stood to receive his salute, whereupon the killers rose from the truck, throwing grenades and firing assault rifle rounds. One assassin, Khalid Islambouli, shouted, “Death to the Pharaoh!” as he ran toward the stand and fired into Sadat’s lifeless body.

  acknowledgements

  I am indebted, as always, to my husband, Jerry, for his moral support and medical knowledge; to my friend Dr. Herb Batt, whose outside-the-box ideas and suggestions for the manuscript were generous and invaluable; to my two writing groups, one the appropriately named Midwives, namely Lynne Murphy, Rosemary McCracken, Madeleine Harris Callway, and Joan O’Callaghan, and the other consisting of Priscilla Galloway, Vancy Kaspar, Heather Kirk, Barbara Kerslake, Lorraine Williams, and Ayanna Black; also to Cecilia Kennedy for help early on. I am grateful to Helga Stummer for taking the time to talk to me about her memories of Nazi Berlin, to Dr. Bruno Belfey for his help on the subject of medical schools in Nazi Germany, and to Dr. Martin Kosoy for his recollections of the Mount Sinai Hospital of 1979. I am thankful to two friends: Sylvia Kissin, for recounting her memories of Cairo, her home in the 1970s, and Dr. Ray Steinman for answering medical questions patiently. I am also grateful to my nephew, Constable Rory Hopkins, of the Toronto Police Services, for letting me pick his brain about his employer. My gratitude to members of the University of Toronto Fencing Team, namely Nick Rudzik, who gave generously of his time at the Benson Building, taking me through the paces of a fencing practice, and Thomas Nguyen and Dr. David Kreindler, who graciously made themselves available and answered my questions about the complicated rules of fencing. My gratitude also to Lanna Crucefix of the University of Toronto Athletic Centre for digging up historic information on the centre. Thanks to my mother, Gustava Maultash, for her continual, unfailing support, and my children, Nathaniel and Jessica, for their help along the way. I am especially grateful to my agent, John Pearce, for all his encouragement and support. My deep thanks to Kirk Howard and the dedicated staff at Dundurn: my editor, Barry Jowett; copy-editor, Andrea Waters; designer, Jennifer Scott, who outdid herself with the cover; head of marketing, Beth Bruder, and marketing assistant, Christianne Commons; and publicist Ali Pennels, assisted by Dan Wagstaff.

  Copyright © Sylvia Maultash Warsh, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Barry Jowett

  Copy-editor: Andrea Waters

  Design: Andrew Roberts

  Epub: Carmen Giraudy

  Cataloguing and Publication Information Available from Library and Archives Canada

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and Livres Canada Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Visit us at: Dundurn.com

  Pinterest.com/dundurnpress

  @dundurnpress

  Facebook.com/dundurnpress

 

 

 
cale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share